This was his ordained fate; this was his brave, new world; these people were his subjects. And he was, for howsoever brief or long a time, an Emperor. And the white, the whirling stars--these were his empire! Perhaps he was not the only one of that group who saw this truth. For there was more than mere grudging lip-service in the changed attitude of Andrews and his wife and son. Bert Andrews was a changed boy. His wilfulness had vanished; his allegiance to Greg was ardent. Maud Andrews' affection for Greg was an obvious thing. She saw to it that he was first fed, first clothed, first taken care of in all things; hers was an attitude of fierce maternalism, springing from a breast that had never known motherhood. And--and there was another strange thing, too. A thing of singing glory that Greg could scarce believe, even though its truth was exhibited to him in a thousand little ways. Crystal Andrews! A great change had come upon Crystal Andrews since the loss of the _Carefree_. Of the old Crystal, only one part remained. Her blindingly radiant beauty. Her selfishness, her coldness, had fled, had been banished as her accustomed languidness had been banished by the obligation of labor. Daily her attitude toward Greg grew more intimate. From aloofness she melted into acceptance, acceptance faded and became approval. Approval waxed as transpiring events proved time and again Greg's wisdom and his right to rule; there came upon the girl an eagerness to be the first to do whatever he suggested. This was good, and as it should be. But there was something else, too; something deeper. At first Greg could not understand it, then gradually its meaning became clear even to his wholly-masculine mind. The sudden glance ... the lingering touch of hand against hand as they chanced to pass one another ... the host of unnecessary little questions that brought them into contact a dozen times a day ... the sweeping flush when he, looking up unexpectedly, met her gaze. All these and other things. The lithe, sure, free, but overwhelmingly feminine allure of her body, shoulder brushing his as they sat before the fireplace in the long evenings. The slow caress of her voice when she spoke his name. The moment of swift alarm--a torpid snake that had somehow wriggled into the cavern, toward the warmth of the fire--and Crystal in his arms for all too short a moment. And drawing away reluctantly when the "danger" was past. * * * * * He should have known from these things. Or from the amused glances of Sparks Hannigan, or the increased surliness of Ralph Breadon, or from the sudden loss of gaiety on the part of 'Tina. "What's the matter with you, 'Tina? Don't you feel well lately?" Her eyes avoiding his. "I'm all right, Greg. It's nothing." "But you don't sing any more. You're sure you're well? There's nothing I can do for you?" "No." Her voice low. "No, thank you."